A craven's tale
by SwedishWhale
Summary: Coryn Waters is a blacksmith's son from the port-side town of Hull. He is an outcast who spends most of his time reading and re-reading whatever books he can get his hands on, but, when Stannis strikes his claim to the Iron Throne and begins recruiting able-bodied men from Hull, Coryn - a self-proclaimed coward - forsakes his home and family in hopes of making it out alive and well
1. Chapter 1

Coryn Waters

As Stannis Baratheon's men were desperately fighting for their lives upon the Blackwater, Coryn was asleep in his straw cot in the town of Hull. His sleep was restless, yet it was not the thought of death and despair that bothered him (for he rarely concerned himself with the toils of his fellow man even before the Lord of Dragonstone's rebellion against the Iron Throne). Coryn Waters was dreaming of far-away lands, lands that even the likes of the Sea Snake and Lomas Longstrider hadn't dared visit. He dreamed of exploring the smoking ruins of Valyria, walking the dark and foreboding streets of Asshai-by-the-Shadow, he dreamed of traversing the thick jungles of Sothoryos and mapping Ulthos. His dreams were always grand, visions of great adventures and forays into the unknown. In his sleep, he was as good a warrior as any, he was as learned as any scholar of the Citadel. His imagination would run wild, conjuring up all manner of unusual and exciting experiences. And then he would awake.

Plain of face, average of height and build, if somewhat weakly, Coryn Waters was neither handsome nor homely. His hair was only slightly darker than copper. Though a man grown at the age of 17, he still retained the facial features of a boy. For this very reason he managed to avoid being recruited by Lord Monford's serjeants when they came to Hull looking for likely lads to fill their ranks before setting sail for Dragonstone and joining the bulk of Lord Stannis' fleet.

Coryn knew why they were in Cobbler's Alley the moment he laid eyes upon them. Martyn One-eye and Jon Orton were two of the most notorious men-at-arms in service of Driftmark. As ugly as they were savage, both of them were particularly famous throughout the winesinks and brothels, where they spent most of their time off-duty (and of this they had much ever since being stationed in Hull). Coryn Waters had never had the displeasure of dealing with them personally, though their fame preceded them everywhere they went within the town. Yet when he saw them clad in mail and boiled leather, swords at their hips, accompanied by members of the city guard, Coryn felt he knew them as well as they knew each other. In their eyes he recognized the two most fundamental emotions known to man – fear and anger. And Coryn Waters knew what it meant when people like them were in a foul mood.

The blacksmith's son ran, leaving the pedlar whose stall he'd been standing beside puzzled.

He raced through New Market, desperately trying to dispel the horrible thought from his mind. _No_ he thought, _they can't be recruiting_. _Why would they? Surely Stannis has enough men as it is._ But Coryn knew. He'd always been quick to comprehend, for what he lacked in brawn he made up for in intelligence. By the time he reached the narrow three story building that housed his and two other families, Coryn Waters had almost managed to convince himself that the serjeants from Driftmark were in Cobbler's Alley on some other business. Perhaps they had been cheated out of their meager weekly wages one too many times and had decided to root out the cheating gamblers for good and all. This theory in particular seemed very plausible to the boy, for the Alley had become a safe haven for many an untrustworthy dice player due to its innocuity, and it would explain the presence of the city guard as well. In the end, this reasoning put his mind at rest and he spent the next few hours reading about the noble families of the Seven Kingdoms.

The book had been gifted to him by his father when last they had met more than a fortnight past. His father rarely left his forge for more than a day at a time, preferring the ring of steel to the sound of chatter and the voices of other people. He was a good smith, his work always of the highest quality, and his skill had not gone unnoticed – the officers of the Hull guard were some of his most loyal customers, seeking him out even for minor work such as hammering out dents or arranging the rings of a mail hauberk. Because of his father's successful smithy, Coryn had rarely wanted for anything. Cobbler's Alley, despite being somewhat cramped and dreary, was one of the safer areas in Hull, far from the docks and harbors that attracted cutpurses and bandits. He wore clean clothes and had three meals a day, his mother (a kindly lady at the age of six-and-thirty) would always make sure of that.

And despite all this, Coryn Waters felt out of place. He was a man grown, yet he had no trade, no skills, marketable or otherwise. He was bright, yes, but he'd never had a formal education; the elderly septon, who had served in the small sept on Mummer's Way his whole life before it was turned to ash, on the floor above his family's had taught him to read and write. And then there was the mystery that had haunted him his whole life. He bore the bastard name Waters, though neither of his parents had ever revealed to him how that came to be. Had his mother been unfaithful? Perhaps it had been his father, ever stern and melancholic, who had put horns on _her_. Or maybe she had already been pregnant by another when his father took her to wife. Coryn didn't know, and it didn't seem likely that he would ever learn.

He was dozing when he heard commotion outside. The boy woke with a start and, upon gathering his bearings, slowly made his way to the square window overlooking the Alley below. He saw Jon Orton and his one-eyed companion, Martyn, along with a small company of guardsmen, gathered around the house opposite his family's. Orton was explaining something to Old Ralph (who was, in fact, only three and forty, but his nickname served to differentiate him from Young Ralph, a twenty year old lad who lived in the same building as his namesake) while the guardsmen were looking around attentively. Coryn couldn't exactly make out what they were saying, but Old Ralph's expression spoke volumes – his eyes were wide with fear, his mouth twisted and quivering.

The Hull guards entered the building and emerged a few minutes later accompanied by the other Ralph and three other men – all of them able bodied and well built. There was no doubt in Coryn's mind about what Jon Orton and Maryn One-eye were doing in Cobbler's Alley anymore. Frantic, he paced through the room, desperately trying to think of a way to save himself. He knew what men like him, untrained green boys from the streets of Hull and the villages sworn to Dragonstone who had never so much as held a sword, would serve for in the battles to come – arrow fodder. They would die by the thousands, if only to make a small opening for the knights and men-at-arms. They would cover the retreat, sacrificing themselves in the name of those more useful in the war. No, that would not do for Coryn Waters. He did not intend for his life to end that way.

He knew of only one way to ensure his safety and survival. A child's features alone would not sway a man like Jon Orton, he knew. Coryn headed to the small area that served as a kitchen. There he found a large cleaver, the one his mother used to cut through raw meat, whenever they could afford it. The boy was terrified. "Come now, Coryn. You're a man grown. Better this than an early grave", the boy told himself. He got a rag to bite down on, hoping that it would also serve to muffle the scream. Raising the cleaver, his breath started coming out in dry, fish-like heaves. He could hear the men outside more clearly now. There were shouts, maybe even a fight. They would be at his door soon, the certainty of death with them. _Come on, Coryn, you fuckin' pansy!_ He brought the cleaver down in a single, clumsy motion. And then he screamed.

He woke up on the floor. When he tried to get to his feet, the world spun around and he was forced to sit back down. Only then did he notice his right hand. The upper halves of two fingers – the ring and the little finger – were missing, turning what was left of them into a mess of congealed blood and broken bone. The sight of it made Coryn vomit, and all at once he became aware of the exquisite pain in his right hand, so sharp that he could hardly keep himself from crying out in agony.

Terrified, he slowly made his way to the front door, not noticing that it had been left slightly ajar, despite his having locked it on his way in, no more than three hours prior. He never noticed the mud tracks that led to where he had been lying and back towards the door. Coryn would never learn of the events that transpired before he regained consciousness.

Jon Orton

"What's Stannis want wit' us, eh? We supposed to take King's Landing wit' hoes an' scythes? Who's gonnae give us clothes an' weapons, who's to train us, I ask ya this!"

The man they called Old Ralph was as furious as he was scared. Jon Orton hated fear. He could smell it on other people and, like a blood hound, it maddened him, infuriated him. And now he could smell it on everyone around him, even himself. His head was pounding, had been since he had been given the orders to start recruiting any and all able bodied men in Hull. He'd always been a simple man, a foot soldier. He carried out his orders and rarely thought twice while going about his business. But this time was different. Even Orton knew what would happen to his new brothers in arms and liked it not at all. He'd always liked Hull, even before Lord Monford had stationed him in the city. His mother would take him there sometimes. They'd go to the fish market down at the harbor and look at the trading galleys while eating fried plaice on a stick. Those moments he remembered with particular fondness, the rare moments of peace in his otherwise harsh life.

"You can take it up wit' him yourself if you get the chance. Now pack up an' say your goodbyes." Jon Orton replied, paying little mind to Ralph's ghastly expression.

The guardsmen that were accompanying him entered the building and went up the stairs to look for more men. They emerged a few minutes later with four others. _Least there ain't no shortage o' men, that oughta make his lordship 'appy_ , Jon thought scornfully.

The group moved to the next building. The ground floor proved empty, possibly deserted – there were signs of recent habitation, yet no one seemed to be around at the moment. They went about their business, gathering anything of value, as they always did with houses whose owners had fled before them and moved on up the stairs. The door to the rooms on the second floor was locked.

"Open up in the name o' Stannis of House Baratheon, the First o' His Name, King o' the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord o' the Seven Kingdoms, an' Protector o' the Realm" Jon Orton hated reciting those lines. They always proved a mouthful for him, especially when mentioning the Rhoynar, due to his missing teeth.

Orton's words did not seem to stir the inhabitants. After a few minutes of threats and insults, the guards decided they'd had enough and kicked the door in. In the corner of the small living room, next to a square table that Orton assumed had served as a chopping block, they found the body of a young boy. Upon closer inspection, they discovered that he was not in fact dead. He'd used a cleaver to chop off two of the fingers on his right hand. Even a man as simple-minded as Jon Orton could see what the boy's intentions had been, and he liked them not at all.

"Pick him up. We'll take him to a master, he'll be good as new by t' time we set sail from Dragonstone".

He might have hesitated before about recruiting a child, but the boy's obvious cowardice made him angrier than he would have liked to admit. Jon felt the sudden urge to kick the limp body, to scream at the boy to get up and man up. After all, that's what he'd had to go through when he was young, shouldn't all the others be forced to grow up early as well?

Orton was headed for the door when he noticed that his companions were not following him. Martyn was staring at him intently with his one good eye, while the guards were glancing at each other uneasily. _Fuck is wrong with them now?_ , Jon thought, suddenly aware of how heavily outnumbered he and his one-eyed friend would be if a fight were to break out between them and the Hull guards.

"What's t' matter now?" he finally asked.

It was Hank Pimple who spoke up first.

"We're not 'bout to start recruitin' kids, Orton. This one right here can't be more than four-and-ten."

"Why'd he chop his fingers off then? Fancied lookin' like the Onion knight you reckon?" Jon quipped. He could feel their eyes on him, their gazes hardening.

This time it was the officer, Olly Crinth, who answered.

"It don't matter why he fuckin' did it. He's a kid, probably panicked when he saw you and your friend," he gestured towards Martyn. "We're not takin' him. It sets a precedent that won't be to his lordship's liking."

Jon had turned red with anger.

"Well I don't know what no fuckin' "precedent" is, but I know what a coward is when I see one in front o' me."

Crinth hesitated. He seemed confused as to whether Orton was referring to him or the boy, lying in a puddle of his own blood. Before he could reply, Jon went for the kid. He grabbed him under the shoulders and made a move to drag him. The guards blocked his way.

"You fuckin'…" Jon started. He was dull, but even he could understand that the situation was quickly spiraling out of his control. Martyn would take his side in a confrontation, he had not doubt about that, but even so, it would be the two of them against eight guards, all armed with good steel. That was a battle he didn't think himself likely to come out of alive. Finally he let go of the body. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

"Fine then. 'ave it your way. Let's move on." Jon made a point of being the last one to leave the room. He threw one last glance at the unconscious boy and made sure to close the door as tightly as possible (its hinges had been broken upon entry), thinking that maybe the cowardly child would die of his self-inflicted wounds. Only upon entering the next building did Orton realize they hadn't checked the third floor of the last house. _We're all the better for it, I reckon. We'd probably 'ave found the kids da' with his balls chopped off, the fuckin' cravens._

Coryn Waters

He climbed the stairs slowly and cautiously. His forehead was beaded with sweat by the time he reached Septon Morris' door. All of Coryn's hopes wre pinned on the elderly man having been deemed unfit to join the army. Once at the door, he gave it a light knock. Nothing happened. He tried again. This time Coryn heard a stirring inside and seconds later the septon was at the doorway. The man remained frozen, staring at Coryn in disbelief. Then he noticed the blood that had crusted on his clothes and ushered him in without so much as a word.

They spent the next hour in silence, neither of them quite knowing what to say. Morris washed the wound out as best he could and used a clean rag to bandage it. Then he knelt and prayed. Coryn had never been interested in the Faith, he did not believe in the Seven, nor in any other queer deities that the men of the world had chosen to put their faith and trust in. He did not quite understand why Morris was praying now, he had never done it before, when he was teaching him to read and write. Coryn thought that it made the old man look even frailer that he already did and once again wondered how it had come to be that man had invented the gods.

Once Morris was done with his prayer to the Mother above, he stood up.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?", he asked the boy while looking in his general direction but not quite at him.

"I…", suddenly Coryn Waters appreciated just how childish his actions had been. No, not childish. Despite appearances, he was not a child, not anymore. He was craven. What did Coryn do when his lord came calling? He maimed himself just to save his own skin. He said nothing.

"No. Well, I believe I already know anyway," the septon was looking straight at him now. There was a hint of disappointment in his eyes.

"I heard 'em fighting downstairs, shouting at each other, arguin' about whether they should take a boy to war."

"They got inside?", Coryn was surprised to find he hadn't noticed any signs of their break in. Had his mind been so clouded by the pain that he had walked right past the broken hinges?

"Aye, that they did. They kicked the door in by the sound o' it." Morris went to his chair by the window and sat down. His joints popped softly and his expression briefly twisted in pain. Then he relaxed. "Get some rest now, Coryn."

The boy lay down in the septon's cramped, bumpy bed. He turned on his side, facing the wall, and fell asleep a short while later. His sleep was deep and dreamless, as it always was when he was utterly exhausted.

When he awoke, Coryn felt dazed and confused. It took him a few moments to recollect the events of the past day (or days? He did not know how long it had been.). A wave of dizziness swept over him when he stood up but he pushed through it.

Septon Morris was in the living room – a small area with a large window overlooking Cobbler's Alley. He was in his favorite cushioned chair that Coryn remembered from the days when he would visit the elderly man's home every week.

"What time is it?"

"Midday," the septon answered, looking away from the window. "You ought visit your father."

His father. In his desperate panic, Coryn had not spared much though on his parents. His mother had gone to Duskendale to help her sister, Tyna, with the harvest. Coryn knew she would be safe there. His father though. Blacksmiths were held in his regard during wars and the boy did not know what would happen to him. Would he been sailing for Dragonstone? Or was he to remain in Hull?

"I suppose I should."

"I brought clothes up for you. Your door's busted, ought get that fixed as well." Morris looked distraught.

"You alright, Morris?"

The septon slowly turned his head back to the window.

"No, I don't think I am. Go now, Otys must be worried sick."

Coryn doubted that. His father loved him, he knew that, but it was more likely that he would be relieved to see the back of him. Coryn Waters knew that he was a liability to his family and never blamed his father for being disappointed by him.

"Thank you, Morris."

The elderly septon only shrugged.

Coryn collected his clothes and left.

On his way down, the boy stopped at his family's door. The hinges were busted and the door itself was heavily dented. Inside, he found mud tracks. By the looks of it there had been almost a dozen of them. In the corner of the main room he saw small puddles of blood. His own, he knew.

Clumsily, he started taking off his old, soiled clothes. _Not half as bad as I thought it'd be_ the boy thought, while fumbling with his trousers.

Coryn got dressed and headed outside. He hesitated before going out the door, not wishing to leave it open, to leave his home ripe for the picking. In the end he decided there was little he could do about it and started making his way towards his father's forge. That was how Coryn Waters had always been. He treated the world as an entity separate from himself. He rarely believed in his ability to influence it in any meaningful way and in the end he always let life run its course and have its way with him. He preferred to bury his nose in his books, reading of the achievements of better men, ignoring his surroundings and letting his dreams consume him completely.

Otys' smithy was far from his home in Cobbler's Alley. It was situated near the docks, on Sea Snake Street, where he could attract the attention of sailors and travellers from all over the Known World. The blacksmith never lacked for work, for he practiced his trade even during what little free time he had. When Coryn arrived at the smithy, he heard the ring of steel and felt reassured. He ducked through the low doorway and followed the sound of his father's relentless hammering. The boy found him in the forge, alone, working on a sword.

"Father", Coryn said by way of greeting.

The blacksmith lowered his hammer and looked at his son incredulously. Coryn might have found the sight of his father, huge and muscled like a bull, with a hammer almost as big his head, menacing, had he not witnessed it so many times before.

"What are you doing 'ere?", Otys asked before returning to his work. "Need a sword? A suit o' armor? Can't promise you either, boy, every smith in the town's been put to work for Stannis' army. They might give you somethin' at the armory though. Best not dally 'ere."

The walls were lined with rust-covered swords and dinted pieces of armor. Coryn knew now that this would be his father's contribution to the war effort. He felt somewhat relieved that he wouldn't be forced to fend for himself.

"I'm not joining Stannis' army."

"No? Lord Monford's retinue then? You'll puke your guts out while crossing the Blackwater but might be you'll be safer with the navy."

"I'm not going to war, da'", the boy replied in a hushed tone.

Finally the blacksmith put down his hammer and looked at his son more carefully. He noticed the bandaged hand. It took him a few moments to realize what Coryn had said.

"Did that on purpose, did you?"

Coryn Waters felt naked under his father's gaze.

"Y-yes," he mumbled.

Otys shook his head and turned towards the fire blazing in the forge.

"Go back to the Alley, Coryn. The men of this city need my 'elp." He did not turn back around to face his son.

And just like that, Coryn found himself back on the bustling thoroughfare leading to the docks. The buildings on both sides of Sea Snake Street rarely exceeded two floors. They were narrower than elsewhere in the town and, in sharp contrast with the inner town, most were uninhabited. This part of town had always been considered undesirable, even by those too poor to afford a home in any other part of Hull. The area was dangerous by night and overcrowded and noisy during the day. There were always sailors looking for an inn or a brothel, travellers looking for a fight after the long months at sea. Strumpets, pedlars and beggars looking for customers or patrons, men of all sorts seeking passage across the Blackwater Bay or the Narrow Sea. Though vibrant and lively at first glance, Snake Street (as the locals often referred to it due to the amount of cutpurses and whores frequenting it) proved a grimy and unsavory place upon closer inspection.

Coryn navigated through the crowds deftly. He made a point of avoiding any members of the Hull city guard – chancing an encounter with a band of recruiters was the last thing Coryn Waters would have wanted. He felt more lost than ever, his own father had shunned him (not that he had ever shown him much affection), his mother was in Duskendale, hundreads of leagues away. He had no friends, very few acquaintances that would so much as recognize him in the street.

Thus it came to be that, weeks later, while Stannis Baratheon's infantry was caught between the walls of King's Landing and the combined hosts of Lannister and Tyrell, while the would-be king's fleet was burning at anchor and his men were jumping into the water, clad in heavy steel, desperate for respite, Coryn was in his straw cot, dreaming his childish dreams of queer and mysterious lands beyond Westeros.


	2. Chapter 2

Coryn had grown accustomed to life in female-dominated Hull. Most of the able-bodied men were away, fighting the lords' wars for them. Coryn was one of the few males remaining in the port town. Trading had ground to a halt when word got out that Stannis and his fleet had set sail for King's Landing, and the steady flow of merchant galleys from all over Westeros and Essos had ceased. Even the hairy Ibbenese, with their huge whaling cogs, and the dark-skinned men of the Summer Isles, famed for their beautiful swan ships and goldenheart bows, had decided against entering the ports of Hull.

Coryn Waters had never enjoyed so much attention as he did in those first days after the soldiers went off to war. Now that he was alone (his father seemed to have disappeared after their last talk and his mother was still in Duskendale, as far as he knew), he found himself in need of food and water, things that his parents provided him with in the days before Stannis' rebellion. Walking down the Alley, he could feel the gazes of those around him – old men, too frail to hold a sword or a spear, green boys, babes in swaddling clothes and women. There were now more than ten women for every male in Hull.

At first he felt unnerved by the constant glances – some of them were hostile, for there were undoubtedly those that saw him as a traitor, a craven. He still wore a large bandage over his right hand, but that did not seem to soften the hearts of those who already considered their husbands, fathers or friends dead because of cowards like Coryn.

Yet that was not all Coryn Waters saw in the eyes of those around him. The looks that some women were giving him were queer, playful almost. They were looks that Coryn did not recognize, and that too scared him at first for he feared any irregularities and unforeseen events. He had often thought he had life mapped out – that he knew all there was to know about the common folk (in his eyes most, if not all of them, were uneducated ignoramuses whose thoughts and emotions he could read like an open book), that he understood the motivations behind the actions of this lord or that one, that he understood nature and all things beyond the control of man.

With time, Coryn became familiar with some of those who visited New Market, where he went to buy food every so often with what little money he had left. The boy had never been out-going or talkative, but he found that some of the people left in Hull were quite similar to himself – the cripples were outcasts, some of the older men were fit only for retelling stories or reading books (that second quality was somewhat less frequent among the common folk of Hull as there were no schools for the poor). Most of the women he met were friendly enough and he found them far more likeable than the men he'd met before the war. For the first time in his life he had friends, people he looked forward to meeting.

It was at the market he learned of Stannis' defeat at the hands of Tywin Lannister and the Tyrell host. A little under a moon's turn after the somewhat morbid anticipation of war had established itself as the dominant sentiment among the people if Hull, the town was gripped by the somber reality of Stannis' rebellion. Where once there had been mild optimism or apathy, there was now hysteria. As word of the slaughter at the Blackwater Bay spread across the town, almost as quickly as the wildfire had spread from one ship to another during the battle, Coryn thought he could hear the collective wailing of every mother, father and wife on the isle of Driftmark. The sound followed him everywhere he went. There was no consoling this large, homogenous blob of human sadness.

No more than three days later, again at New Market, more troubling news reached his ears. Robett Glover was marching a northern host towards Duskendale. This time it was not the sadness of those around him that concerned Coryn. It was not even the peril that his mother was in. It was his own survival that he thought of.

The news of Stannis' defeat had disquieted him, especially when he learned that part of his forces was returning to Dragonstone. Coryn knew that he would be in danger upon their return – if the Baratheon pretender was mad enough to harbor hopes of a second assault, he would surely recruit every last man left on Dragonstone and Driftmark. Even if the Lord of Dragonstone chose to accept defeat, Coryn knew the men returning to Hull would be in a foul mood, especially if they learned that he had stayed on the island with the women and children while they perished by the thousands. If Glover were to lay siege to Duskendale, Coryn would have no hopes of escaping Driftmark. _Which would be better – being impaled by a burning stag or torn apart by a pack of wolves?_ Coryn pondered grimly. His only hope, he knew, would be to escape the island immediately. To board one of the last ships heading for Duskendale and hope to arrive before Glover's forces closed off the port. But how would he survive so far from Hull? He'd never left the town, let alone visited the mainland – it was a costly voyage, one that his family rarely chose to embark on. Yet now he found he had no other choice. And once again, Coryn set his mind on escaping his fate

Over the next few days he sold most of his family's belongings, except for the clothes on his back and a few items he thought vital to his continued survival at sea and, later, on the mainland.

Hoping he'd made enough to secure his passage to Duskendale, he made his way to the docks, down Snake Street. The thoroughfare, once crowded with sailors and adventurers from every corner of the Known World, was but a shadow of its former self – almost deserted, save for those few who lived there. It had an eerie atmosphere to it, a feeling of calm before the storm. Coryn did not intend to witness said storm. He passed by his father's smithy, boarded up and empty. Not for the first time the boy wondered about Otys' fate.

There were but three ships in the harbor, those unfortunate enough to be caught in a storm and forced to stop at Hull for repairs. Most sailors avoided the town, for the castellan of Dragonstone had taken to claiming their ships for Stannis' "royal" fleet.

Coryn made his way toward the first one, a large hulk called _Dirty Mary._

He stopped by one of the shipmates and asked him where they were headed.

"Duskendale. Rook's Rest 'fore that." the man replied, carrying on with his business.

"Might I speak with the captain?"

"Aye, if he's in t' mood. He's the big burly one at the prow, o'er there."

Coryn boarded the ship and made his way to the prow, ignoring the crew's suspicious glances. The captain was, indeed, a huge man, broad-shouldered and stout like a keg. He wore a tattered blue coat and a wide-brimmed hat that concealed most of his face.

"I was told you were the captain of this ship, ser." Coryn started, somewhat intimidated by the man's physique.

The captain turned to face him.

"Ship? It's a bloody wreck. But aye, 'tis mine." the captain paused. "Name's Angus Lowel, no _sers_ in front o' it. What's it you want, boy?"

"I was hoping to pay for passage to Duskendale."

Coryn did not expect much. Angus Lowel did not strike him as the type of man who took passengers aboard his vessel, even if they were willing to pay him for the dubious pleasure. To his surprise, Lowel agreed, without so much as a second's hesitation.

"Aye. But it's not money you'll pay with. I lost more than half my crew on the way 'ere, only t' find the city half empty. If you're ready to work for me, you can come as far as Duskendale."

Another man might have taken Angus Lowel up on his offer instantly. Any other man might have been glad to have the opportunity to keep his money. But not Coryn. He'd never been strong like his father. The only work the boy had ever done was to help his mother carry food back home from the market. The prospect of cleaning the deck and running around the ship while a storm raged on all around him terrified him to no end. That, and the thought of the other members of the crew screaming at him, insulting him for doing a bad job. _What other choice do I have? Besides, humiliation isn't as deadly as a sword through the belly._

"Fine then. We have a deal." They shook hands and the captain took him down to the hold, where the men bedded down with the ship's cargo – wine and seafood, by the look of it.

"This is where you'll be stayin', along with the rest of the crew. It ain't much, but at least you'll be dry and relatively warm."

Coryn thanked the captain. After Lowel had left, he found himself alone in the dark, rancid belly of the ship. Finding a snug place at the opposite end of the hold, the boy began laying out his possessions, such as they were – a copy of Colloquo Votar's _Jade Compendium,_ some salted beef he had bought at the market on his way to the docks, fearing that he wouldn't be able to afford food on board after paying for his passage, a leather jacket bearing the arms of House Velaryon which had been a gift for his father from the Bastard of Driftmark, Aurane Waters, and a short sword that he had found in one of the cupboards in his parent's room. The short sword was one-handed, made of good steel. Coryn hadn't the faintest idea as to how to use it but he felt safer knowing that it was close by.

He hid the bag containing his things in a large cedar chest next to the sleeping bundle he'd been given, hoping no one would think to look inside it.

At midday, the _Dirty Mary_ set off for Rook's Rest, located directly to the west of Cracklaw Point. At first, Coryn feared sea-sickness would be his constant companion throughout the voyage, but he found the perpetual swaying of the ship soothed him, gave him an unusual feeling of comfort that he had rarely found outside his home.

Over the next four days he did all that was expected of him as best he could. He swept the hold and scrubbed the deck when necessary. He mended the sails and pumped out the sea water (the hull of the _Mary_ was old and pockmarked with tiny holes and crevices). Once, Cpt. Lowel even sent him up into the crow's nest to look for land.

The life of a sailor proved a hard one. By the time they reached Rook's Rest, his hands were covered in blisters and his legs ached. After exhausting his cache of salted beef, Coryn resorted to eating powdered biscuits that smelled of piss and raw fish. He couldn't help notice that some of the sailors, the older ones that had spent the most time at sea, seemed to be in a great deal of pain – parts of their legs had blackened and were covered in cuts (he assumed the cuts were the result of their attempts to let out the "bad" blood), their teeth were often covered in dark, putrid blood that oozed from their gums. Coryn had read of the ailments that plagued the common shipmate, but no second-hand retelling could have prepared him for the reality of life at sea. The water that the crew drank was stored in barrels. The _Mary_ hadn't spent enough time at Hull to resupply its stocks, and the barrels that were already aboard were filled with a yellow-tinged substance that bore little resemblance to the water Coryn had tasted on the mainland.

On the fourth day of their journey they finally saw the outlines of a stony shore. By midday they could make out Lord Staunton's castle, Rook's Rest, in the distance – towers, murder holes and all. _Dirty Mary_ slid into the port effortlessly and the crew immediately set about repairing the ship. Captain Lowel ordered Coryn and two others, Jock Horfyng and Pretty Wat, to unload three chests of clams and two barrels of sweet pale amber wine from Pentos – they would try to sell or trade them, in hope of securing food and fresh water.

The market proved to be every bit as meager as the port-side village itself (the port was located outside Lord Staunton's keep and a medium-sized village had sprung to life around it). Small and grimy, it was all but deserted. Trading and fishing had slowed to halt, much the same as in Hull, as the Realm slid deeper into chaos. Nonetheless there were still those who hoped to turn a profit even in the darkest of times. A scruffy looking merchant bought a barrel of wine for a golden dragon and two of the chests were traded for casks full of salted beef. Relieved, Angus Lowel gave his men leave to explore the village and rest until dawn.

Coryn made his way to _Vikki's Hut_ , the only inn in the village, if its owner was to be believed. The establishment itself was completely unimpressive – a two story building made of timber and stone.

He was greeted by a kindly old man.

"G'day to you," the innkeep started. "You come in on that ship a few hours ago?"

"Yes," Coryn replied, curtly.

"Well, there's rooms enough for all of yous, Seven know we 'aven't been getting many travellers 'round here ever since the war started. Truth be told, our port ne'er was awfully crowded even before all those kings started popping up like worms after rain, hah." The innkeep seemed in the mood for conversation. Apart from Coryn himself, there were only four or five others inside, two of them sailors from the _Mary_.

"Won't be needing a room. Just some hot onion broth for now," the boy said.

"Well then, you find yourself a seat and I'll bring it right o'er. It'll be fifteen coppers."

Coryn gave the man twenty, in hopes of getting some bread to go with the broth. He sat at a table next to the fireplace, as far from his shipmates as possible and waited. _So this is the mainland? Seems as grubby and dreary as Hull so far._

The old innkeep approached him, carrying a bowl of steaming broth and a fresh loaf of bread.

"Mind if I sit with you for a bit? Not many young people around 'ere these days and I always thought t' young ones were better company, heh."

Coryn had never been fond of small talk with strangers but he allowed it this time, interested to hear what this old man from the mainland had to say.

"Any news of the war? Heard the northerners were marching for Duskendale."

"Aye, they are. Burning and pillaging their way down the Kingsroad," the old man replied, with a look of disgust in his eyes. "A deserter from t' Duskendale patrol came by 'ere not a day past. Said the wolves were already at Sow's Horn. S'ppose they'd have reached the city by now."

Coryn had only the faintest idea as to Sow's Horn's location but he assumed it was dangerously close to Duskendale.

"Why're you asking? Don't happen t'be headed there?" the old man inquired.

The boy didn't answer. He had another couple of spoonfuls of broth and left, but not before thanking the innkeep for his hospitality.

He raced for the _Mary_ , hoping to find Cpt. Lowel in his cabin. He found him before so much as reaching the dock. Lowel was still in the market square, discussing something with his second-in-command, Hal Waters.

"Captain, might I have a word?"

"I know what you want to talk about boy. Duskendale's under siege, or will be soon. I s'ppose you'll be wanting to change yer destination." Just then Coryn noticed how distraught the captain was. "You're free to go." And at that, Angus Lowel turned back to Hal and they continued their talk.

He hadn't expected any of this. In Coryn's mind, Harrenhal had always been an abstract concept, a monstrous castle in a faraway land. It had never even occurred to him that it could be so close, and that the wolves could be at Lord Rykker's doorstep so quickly. Once again he found himself in need of a new plan. _And what about my mother? Is she still there?_ He dismissed those thoughts, for Coryn knew there was little and less he could do for his mother. He supposed that he wouldn't be of much use to her even if he was right next to her.

One last time he descended into the bowels of the _Mary_ to gather his possessions. He put on the leather jacket and put the sword at his hip, hoping the sight of it would dishearten any would-be robbers.

Moving through the docks, Coryn Waters decided to spend the night at the inn and think about how to proceed on the morrow.

"Already miss my broth do ya, heh?" the old man said when he noticed him stumbling back into the seat near the hearth.

"Another broth couldn't do me any harm. And I'd like a room for the night as well."

"You can have the one with the fireplace. I'll throw in the broth for free if you take that one."

"Alright"

Minutes later the innkeep brought him his broth and sat next to him.

"Bart's the name. Folk around here call me Oldie," he said and gave him his hand. The boy took it and felt the old man's strong, leathery hand grip his.

"I'm Coryn Waters, from Hull."

"Hull? Say, how old are you boy?"

Coryn took another sip of his broth to win himself some time. _Why would he want to know my age?_

"Seven-and-ten," he finally replied, making a point of showing Oldie his maimed right hand.

The elderly innkeep did not fail to notice the missing fingers and considered them for a while before carrying on the conversation.

"So, I take it you were headed for Duskendale."

"Aye, that was our destination."

"Where to now, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I do mind."

Oldie shrugged.

"Not much of a talker, are you boy?" He looked around the inn, as if just then noticing his other customers for the first time. "I'd best be back to the kitchen. Enjoy your stay." The innkeep left Coryn's side and disappeared behind the kitchen door.

Coryn didn't sleep that night. _I can't reach my mother without getting caught up in battle. I can't return to Hull – there won't be any ships heading that way until the war is over. Where am I to go from here?_ He still had money, more than enough to buy a mule or a horse, along with some supplies. But where would he go? No lord would take him on as his cupbearer. No smith or merchant would want an apprentice like him. He thought about taking the black, but the prospect of spending the rest of his days in the bleak shadow of the Wall frightened him. The gravity of his situation was beginning to dawn on him. When the first rays of the sun penetrated the darkness of his room on the second floor of the inn, he was on the verge of tears. But as he tossed and turned in the bed, he chanced a glimpse at the _Jade Compendium_ and all of a sudden he knew exactly what to do. _Leave the swords to the dullards, Coryn. You don't need a sword to make something of yourself._ Surely there were people like him in the Citadel, they must take him in!

Quickly, he dressed, packed up his things and went downstairs. There, Coryn could smell the scent of fried eggs and fresh bread. He gave Oldie fifty coppers for a large portion and took his seat near the hearth. Again, the old innkeep hobbled over to where he was sitting.

"Heh, feelin' better are we?"

Coryn graced him with a thin smile. He took another bite of bread. Still chewing, the boy asked if Oldie knew of anyone selling horses in the village.

"Not in the village but I know Lord Stauton's squire has a lame palfrey he's looking to get rid of."

After finishing his breakfast, Coryn thanked the old man and headed for the castle. At the top of a steep cliff, Rook's Rest was small but strong. The road leading up to the castle was the only means of attacking it on foot (unless the attacker had dragons at his disposal, much like Aegon II Targaryen during the Dance of the Dragons), making it difficult to take. The gates were open and some villagers were moving about, selling their wares to all those who were too busy to go down to the village market.

He made his way to the stables and inside he found a young man, only a few years older than himself, grooming a black palfrey. He turned around and looked at Coryn.

"Can I help you?" the young man asked.

"I was told someone in the castle was selling a horse," Coryn replied meekly.

The man looked him up and down disdainfully.

"That'd be me," he gestured toward the black palfrey "and this is Snail. She's lame, as you might notice but sure-footed and young. She's not cheap, I must warn you."

Then a voice called out from just outside the stable.

"Selling Ser Lamey, are you Tiss? Kid would be a bloody fool to give you more than a few stags." The man-at-arms went on his way, snickering as he did.

Tiss reddened, but didn't reply. He regained his composure and asked Coryn how much he could offer for the horse.

"Eight stags for the horse, and four for the saddle."

"Deal," Tiss exclaimed. What Coryn didn't know was that Lord Staunton's squire had been trying to sell the horse for half that price for more than a moon's turn and none of the knights at Rook's Rest had been willing to buy a lame palfrey for more than two silver stags.

And so it came to pass that Coryn was on the road and out of sight of Rook's Rest within hours. For the first time in years he was excited, eager to find out what life had planned for him. The going was slow, for he'd never ridden a horse for more than a hundred feet without falling off, but he was getting more and more confident with every minute. Soon he pushed the palfrey to a trot.

Coryn spent the night under a tree, with nothing but his jacket to keep him warm. _I thought there were supposed to be hundreds of towns and villages on the mainland_ the boy thought as he gathered twigs and leaves. Starting a fire was the only useful skill he had learned during his days at Hull and he felt gratified to finally find a use for it.

Coryn woke up early and continued his journey after he and Snail had had a light breakfast comprised of apples and blood oranges.

The countryside was a sorry sight – everywhere Coryn went he found burned and blackened fields, abandoned farms and scattered corpses. He'd decided to swing around Duskendale and pass by the Kingsroad at Ivy Inn, as Oldie had advised him to before he left the inn, in hopes of avoiding the war, but it seemed that there was no avoiding it – it had left its imprint on every corner of Westeros.

He spent the next fortnight travelling – sleeping out in the open, eating sparse meal with Snail as his only companion.

He'd decided against dallying at the Ivy Inn and instead replenished his food stocks, watered his horse and carried on. _Hopefully the Reach proves more pleasant, otherwise I might as well tie a rope around my neck and hang myself next these poor bastards right here_ Coryn thought, as he was passing by the swinging corpses of deserters near the God's Eye _._ His journey had been uneventful, if somewhat depressing – the war had finally spread to every corner of the Crownlands and everywhere the boy went he saw carrion crows, circling the bodies of the dead. At times, Coryn felt like the dead were watching him, staring at him through empty eye sockets. He followed the Gold Road for a while before crossing the Blackwater Rush and making his way south, towards Tumbleton.

But as he left the Gold Road and headed deeper into the lands of House Tyrrell and their bannermen, he felt the change. The very atmosphere of the area was different – one of optimism and cheerful innocence. By the time he got within less than a hundred leagues from Tumbleton, the war seemed a distant thing, meaningless (not that Coryn had really learned what the War of the Five Kings, as some had taken to calling it, meant, but the feeling of danger had been palpable during his journey through the lands around King's Landing).

Tumbleton was a small town, no bigger than Hull. Coryn knew very little about it, except that the stout castle overlooking Tumbleton was the seat of House Footly.

Leading Snail through the streets, seeking a tavern or an inn, he pondered on how different this town was from his home. Both were the largest centers of commerce in their respective areas, but where Hull was grey and grimy, Tumbleton was bright, filled with color. There were gardens in the areas between the buildings, bushes and trees lining the streets. The sun bathed the town in its light, illuminating every alley and street, whereas in Hull the weather was overcast more oft than not, making every passageway and nook dark and foreboding. Even the guards in the two towns looked nothing alike. The members of the Order of Tumbleton (as the local guard was called) were the very definition of chivalry – most of them were younger men, tall and lean, armored in green-tinged plate armor and morions, decorated with colored feathers. Coryn saw many of them helping the common folk, heard them having conversations with people in the market square. All this was in stark contrast with the town guards of Hull – famous for their brutality and brusqueness, most of them were vile, cruel men, House Velaryon's undesirables.

As he led his palfrey into the stables of the inn he'd chosen to spend the night in, _The Jolly Squire,_ he thought of one Hull soldier in particular – Jon Orton. The boy remembered the terror of those first few days of Stannis' rebellion, more than three moon's turns ago and shuddered. He wondered if Orton was still alive, or if his vengeful spirit was looking for him, seeking to exact its revenge upon the craven. _With my luck, he'll find me in the privy and suffocate me with my own shit._ In the end he dismissed those thoughts, knowing that ghosts were as real as snarks and grumkins. And gods, for all Coryn knew.

He ate sparingly, ordering a quarter of a lamprey pie. His money had barely been enough to afford a room in the inn for the night and the boy knew that soon enough he'd have to resort to selling his palfrey. _Or eating it. It'd probably be a mercy._ Indeed, the horse seemed to be in pain – its lame leg made it clumsy and slow, prone to stumbling. Coryn wasn't afraid of falling off because he always rode slowly and carefully, as befits a self-taught rider, but the palfrey wasn't going to get any stronger. If he was to have any hopes of getting a good price for it, he'd need to sell it soon.

Sleep came easy to him that night. He dreamed he was at the gates of a city of tremendous proportions. Its walls were white, marble or limestone Coryn supposed, tall and strong they stood. Behind them, he could see a tower, its upper part so high in the sky that the clouds concealed most of it. _Hightower? This must be Oldtown._ The boy advanced towards the gates of the ancient city. Once through, the immense scale and beauty of what he saw left him in awe – the largest city in all the Seven Kingdoms, Oldtown was home to some of the most impressive buildings in the Realm. He saw the Starry Sept, rising above the cityscape in the distance, the Seven Shrines close by. He saw Battle Isle and the maze-like structure at the base of the House Hightower's seat. Coryn's gaze shifted and fell upon the Citadel, as large as a small town by itself. And just as he started descending the small hill that he had found himself on upon entering, he noticed the tidal wave – black as a moonless night and taller than any wave Coryn had seen on his home island. Dread gripped him, freezing him in place. Coryn could do nothing but look on as it slid gracefully, silently through the harbor, devouring large trading galleys and warships as if they were nothing. He could hear the screams now, the wails of the damned, beseeching their gods for help. All of a sudden the wave slammed violently into the city itself, submerging even the Citadel in its dark, reflective waters. Moments later, the screams ceased and the air was filled with a rasping sound, like that of an old door creaking open. Suddenly, the boy realized it was a laugh. Still unable to move, he cried as he watched the wave approach him, the laugh accompanying it as it crept towards him.

He woke with a start, drenched in sweat, tears running down his cheeks. The dream had been unlike any he'd had before – it felt completely real. Slowly, Coryn regained his composure and sat up. The room was pitch black, the bedside candle had burned out hours ago. He tried going back to sleep but the memory of the horror in Oldtown kept him awake.

He left at first light. _Just a dream, nothing to dwell on_ the boy told himself as he mounted Snail and rode out of the stables, kicking the lame palfrey into a brisk trot. Coryn wanted to leave the town. His nightmare had ruined the appeal of Tumbleton for him.

He'd resolved to follow the Mander all the way to Bitterbridge. From there he would follow the Rose Road to Oldtown.


	3. Chapter 3

That day he decided he'd made good time and stopped to rest under an old weirwood tree, no more than fifty paces away from the river. The boy sat down on one of the tree's roots and started nibbling on a piece of stale bread. He admired the world around him, his nightmare all but forgotten. Suddenly, he heard a dog bark somewhere off to his right, whence he'd come less than thirty minutes ago. Coryn panicked. His first reaction was to hide, but he quickly realized that concealing himself would be pointless with Snail out in the open. He opened his bundle and pulled out his sword. It felt awkward in his maimed right hand so he decided to switch the short sword to his left hand, knowing that he was equally inadequate no matter which one he used. And then he watched, awaiting whatever danger was behind the river bend. The man who emerged was queer enough to make Coryn pause and forget all about his fear. His skin was the color of ebony. He was tall and muscular, not as strong as the boy's father but still very well built. The dark man wore a plain white shirt and brown trousers, held in place with a large copper belt. At his waist was a dirk, its pommel a beautiful curved swan made of ivory. The longbow slung across his back was by far the most intriguing – it was a double-curved bow, the color of molten gold, half as long as the man himself.

As Coryn stood next to the weirwood, staring at the stranger, the man finally noticed him and stopped dead in his tracks. A wooly grey dog appeared behind him shortly after, bearing its teeth at the sight of Coryn's sword.

"Greetings," the black man said. His voice was gruff and he spoke the common tongue with a slight accent, yet Coryn had no problem understanding him (later, he assumed it was because he'd grown accustomed to listening to the Essosi traders in Hull).

"Good day to you," Coryn replied.

They looked at each other for a long time before the foreigner finally broke the silence.

"You don't seem like a robber."

"That's because I'm not one."

"Then why is it that you're clutching a sword?"

Coryn put down his blade. He knew there would be little and less he'd be able to do if the stranger decided to attack him, with or without the sword. He sat back down onto the root and resumed his meager lunch.

The foreigner approached him slowly.

"Might I join you?"

Coryn nodded cautiously, fighting against the urge to shy away from this queer man who'd intruded on his tranquility.

The large man sat down. His dog did not follow – instead, it ran into the woods, sniffing at the ground.

"I have the honor of being Kalo Jho of Tall Trees Town." he grinned at Coryn and held out his hand. The boy took it hesitantly.

"And I have the great displeasure of being Coryn Waters."

Kalo laughed heartily and Coryn himself couldn't help but smile.

"Say, my young friend, what do you know of the Summer Islands?"

"Not much, admittedly. I know that bow of yours is made of goldenheart though," Coryn replied.

The Summer Islander grinned again. _Smiles come easy to him. He seems like a good enough sort._

"Yes. Moyo dhahabu, we call it." he made a brief pause before continuing. "Tall Trees Town is on the island of Walano, the Demon Isle as the Ghiscari referred to it. It is the greatest town in all the Summer Islands."

Kalo went on at great length about the traditions of his people, recounting the history of the Isles since their first contact with the outside world. Coryn lost track of what the man was saying at times, whenever his accent impeded the flow of his story, yet he learned much and more about the black men and women of the Summer Islands. Kalo himself had left the Isles when he was very young, Coryn learned, no more than nine years of age. Some new corsair kings of the Basilisk Isles had decided to prove his prowess by raiding the Tall Trees Town. Kalo had survived but his mother and father were carried off into slavery. He worked as a shipmate on one of the famed swan ships of the Summer Islands, where he discovered his thirst for adventure. Thus he had set out on a journey to the far corners of the Known World – he'd visited all nine Free Cities before venturing into Westeros.

Just as he finished his tale, the dog emerged from a nearby bush, carrying a dead squirrel in its mouth. It dropped its prey in Kalo's feet and barked happily.

"Say, my young friend, would you like to share Imvu's pickings with me?"

Coryn knew he'd dallied long enough. More than an hour had passed since he stopped to rest. Yet he could not bring himself to refuse Kalo's offer. He liked this queer foreigner, for he felt a strange kind of connection with him – they were both alone in the world, without a place to call their own. Coryn felt that theirs was the pursuit not of happiness but of fulfillment and gratification.

"Why not."

"Where are you headed now?" Coryn asked through a mouthful of meat.

"I have heard much and more of this Reach. They talk of the beauty of Highgarden and Goldengrove, of the regality of Oldtown. They speak and Kalo Jho listens."

"Maybe we can go to Oldtown together then?" Coryn blurted out, immediately surprised by his own question.

Kalo grinned yet again.

"Very well. From now on you shall travel with Kalo Jho of Tall Trees Town, my young friend."

The man's response caught Coryn off guard. Most of those he'd met on the road before had been hostile or apathetic, none going so far as to even speak to him. Yet this stranger from the far-away islands of the Summer Sea was friendly, eager to share what little he had with someone he'd just met.

And so they went, Coryn rode his lame palfrey and Kalo walked beside him, his dog Imvu bounding behind them. _We must truly be a sight to behold – a crippled craven atop a Snail, a black man from the Summer Islands and a hairy dog with a queer name._

Bitterbridge was a welcome sight for Coryn and Kalo's weary eyes. There had been heavy rains just hours after their first meeting. The Mander arose from its bed, consuming the narrow river-side road and preventing the two of them from advancing any further. Now, three days later, they finally glimpsed the castle of Bitterbridge, the Roseroad winding past its reddish walls.

'Tell me, my young friend, what is this Bitterbridge known for?" Kalo inquired, when they got within no more than a few hundred feet from it.

Coryn had spent most of his life reading, filling his head with tales of the great castles and cities of Westeros and distant Essos, but his travels with Kalo had put his knowledge to the test and the boy now doubted the extent of his expertise. They had traded stories all the way from the weirwood tree where they'd met to where they were standing now, and each time the Summer Islander came up with more questions, most of which Coryn was forced to leave without answer.

"It's the seat of House Caswell," Coryn began. _Or was it Ryswell?_ "I only know that there was a big battle here during the reign of Maegor I. It's said that the Mander ran red with blood that day."

"This Maegor was a brute, no?"

"The cruelest king to ever rule Westeros, that's what the old Septon Morris used to tell me. He warred against the Faith itself, though I don't exactly consider that a bad idea."

They reached the Roseroad, and joined it without a moment's hesitation. The village of Rosington was their next destination and there they would try to barter with the villagers for food and supplies – Coryn had decided that he would part with Snail there.

"What gods do you believe in, my young friend?" Kalo asked shortly after Coryn's remarks on Maegor's war against the Faith Militant.

"I don't keep any gods." The boy was curt. He hoped the edge in his voice was dismissive enough, but the Islander inquired further.

"Why not?"

"I only believe in that which I can see or touch. There is no evidence of the existence of…" he trailed off, knowing that his words could spark a discussion which could end with the two of them parting ways. "I'd rather not go into detail."

"I do not blame you, my young friend. Your Westerosi gods are cruel, hateful things. What god would frown upon the act of love? On the Summer Isles we worship Upendo, the god of all things beautiful and elegant."

Kalo told Coryn all about the religious rituals of the Islanders (though Coryn considered them bestial, for, as Kalo Jho described them, they consisted of a temporary mass migration to a holy island with the aim of collective copulation). By the time they had reached Rosington, the boy knew more than he'd like to know about religion on the Summer Islands. _Maybe if the Citadel doesn't take me in I could go to the Isles and become a priest. Or a male prostitute, Kalo seems to think those are held in high regard as well._

Snail fetched them a better sum than expected. The village elder's son gave them three silver stags and fifty coppers for the palfrey and two more stags for the saddle. Having made a quick sale they were able to walk another ten or so miles before the sun went down. That night they bedded down in a grove close to the road, hidden from any passersby.

The next day went on much the same way – they walked to the next village, Crowfosters, where they bought supplies and carried on until the sun hid from sight and the road ahead disappeared behind a thick vale of darkness.

"That's got to be the Mander," Coryn exclaimed on the fifth day of their journey. "It means we're finally approaching Highgarden!"

Imvu barked excitedly, as if in agreement with the boy's words.

"Good. Perhaps I will have more luck in finding wine from the Isles there. It's been awhile since I've tasted the sweet golden nectar of Omboru," Kalo said.

The Roseroad grew more crowded with every mile they went. Mace Tyrell had just recently reopened it and merchants, hedge knights and minor lordlings were all constantly toing and froing, as it connected the two biggest cities in the realm – Oldtown and King's Landing.

Coryn didn't mind it in the slightest. For the first time he found himself dumbfounded by nature's beauty – Highgarden was situated on a gentle hill, gradually rising from the rolling plains surrounding the shores of the Mander. He caught the earthy scent of wet grass and heard the quiet rumble of the great river in the distance.

"So you Westerosi do know what the word 'beauty' means after all" Kalo remarked after taking in the scenery.

Closer to Highgarden itself, nature had submitted to man – rows and rows of neatly trimmed hedges lined the Roseroad on either side. Behind them there were trees of all sorts, lime and blood orange trees stood next to birches and dornish yews, cedars and pines from the North next to apricots and white cherries from the Free Cities. Yet even here there were signs of the approaching winter – amidst the green leaves and grass, there was now gold.

 _This must be a hedge knight's paradise_ , Coryn thought, imagining them sleeping under the hedges by night and taking part in the melees and jousts at tourneys during the day.

It took them the better part of the day to get through the gates of Highgarden. The town was crowded with all sorts of people – merchants, knights looking to join the Tyrell retinue, travellers and even refugees, those who had wanted to get as far away from the fighting in the Riverlands as possible. Kalo had to carry Imvu for fear that the dog might lose its way.

Wandering through the streets, they finally found a tavern that wasn't full to the brim and sat down in it. As they were sharing a honeyed chicken, a man with greying hair, dressed in a studded leather jerkin approached them and asked if he could sit at their table. Kalo Jho consented before Coryn could respond. They ate in silence for a while before the stranger finally spoke, his mouth full of stew.

"I take it you aren't from the Reach?" The man did not talk like a commoner, instantly making Coryn suspicious.

"I am Kalo Jho of the Summer Isles and this is my young friend from the town of Hull, Coryn Waters."

"Long way from home, the both of you."

The man finished his stew before introducing himself.

"I am Garth Tyrell."

"You can't be." Coryn blurted out. "Why would the Lord Seneschal of Highgarden eat in a grubby tavern like this one?" The boy had heard the name earlier that morning, while listening to a pair of guardsmen by the side of the road.

The man who claimed to be Garth Tyrell looked at him. At first his eyes gave away a certain hostility but then his gaze softened.

"Well, young man, I wish I could recount an exciting and sapiential tale of the circumstances that led to me eating in this "grubby" tavern, but that would make me a liar. The truth is very simple and void of meaning. Tell me, Coryn Waters, have you ever heard how most people refer to me out of my hearing?"

Coryn fidgeted in his seat and shook his head, now realizing that this man might in fact be the Lord Seneschal.

Instead, Kalo answered, his typical toothy smile on his face. "Garth the Gross?"

Garth let out a sigh.

"Has my ill repute reached even the Summer Isles? Well, no matter." he looked around, as if wishing to be somewhere else. "I'm plagued by terrible indigestion, which has caused me, on numerous occasions, to break wind in public. It just so happens that the stew served in this tavern is the only food that does not provoke such bowel movements and I've taken to eating here, so as not to disquiet my friends and family in the castle."

Coryn didn't know how to respond. There he was, a lowly commoner from Hull with a bastard's name, listening to a lord of the gentlest birth talking about his problems with indigestion. The boy lowered his gaze, dumbfounded for the second time that day.

And then Kalo laughed. The Islander laughed more heartily that ever before in Coryn's presence.

Garth looked as surprised as Coryn, before a thin smile appeared on his lips.

"I must bid you good night. I find that my relatives consider my prolonged absence even more disquieting than my farts." Garth said before standing up and leaving. Kalo laughed even harder at that, and Coryn thought he might burst.

In the morning, as they were exiting the stables where they'd slept, Coryn almost convinced himself that it had all been a dream, until Kalo commented on it.

"Your Westerosi lords are very amusing, my young friend. Mayhaps we should find more of them."

"The only thing we're going to find is the way back to the Roseroad." Coryn replied, shivering at the thought of meeting nobles like Tywin Lannister of Stannis Baratheon.

The dog, the black skinned man and eight-fingered Coryn continued down the Roseroad.

They were now just over three days away from Oldtown, Coryn judged as he saw a smaller, narrower road veer off to his left towards Horn Hill. Their passage was uneventful as it had been since they left Bitterbridge. The Roseroad was under heavy use so they rarely went long without seeing another traveller or roaming knight, but bandits were not present. The Reach was living up to its reputation, as far as Coryn and Kalo were concerned.

"What do you plan on doing next?" Coryn asked when they reached the point where the Roseroad branched off towards Honeyholt and Brightwater Keep.

"I will visit Dorne, my young friend, before returning to the Isles. I've not been there in more than ten years. After that, who knows? Perhaps I shall become the first Islander to brave the smoking ruins of Valyria." he smiled ambiguously and adjusted his goldenheart longbow. It hadn't seen much use during their time on the Roseroad, except when Kalo went hunting for hares and deer. Coryn'd never actually seen the man use it but he found himself thinking that the bow, along with Kalo Jho's unusual looks, had acted as a deterrent to any potential wrongdoers. In fact, the Reach had proved so peaceful that the boy hadn't so much as touched his father's sword since entering House Tyrell's lands.

"And you, my friend? You will become an old man in grey robes with a heavy chain around your neck, no?" Kalo laughed heartily and Coryn realized that he would miss the Islander. He'd grown accustomed to his company and his relaxed demeanor. The boy had learned more from the tall Kalo Jho of Tall Trees Town than he had from his father in Hull. _Don't latch onto him just because he was kind to you, there will be plenty more just like him at the Citadel,_ Coryn reasoned with himself.

"A young man in a white robe, actually. I'll get the chains later." Coryn replied, somewhat glumly, realizing how closely a maester's attire resembled that of a slave.

"It'll be getting dark soon and we don't have any food." Kalo observed after a lengthy pause.

Kalo Jho caught a hare and roasted it on a spit. They spent the night under an old willow. The weather was comfortably warm, due in part to the hot winds forming over the Dornish desert and blowing down the Marches.

As he nibbled on his part of the roast hare, Coryn contemplated his future. Had he given up his meager existence in Hull, the depressingly dull reality of his past life, to start an equally repetitive and uninteresting life in Oldtown? Leaving behind his family had been a hasty, maybe even premature decision, he now knew, but he'd never felt more alive than when he was travelling. Even in the Crownlands, when he'd briefly considered ending it all for good, he felt more at peace than he had ever before. After all, had journeying the wide world not been his only dream, his only ambition for as long as he could remember? How could he, in good conscience, forsake his dream and return to the monotonous reality of life in the city? Coryn knew little of the day-to-day dealings of a scribe at the Citadel, but he doubted he would have much free time. _Would stability be so bad, though? To know that, no matter what, you've a roof over your head and a soft bed awaiting you at the end of the day?_ Still conflicted, he went to sleep late, long after their fire had burned down to embers.

He awoke in impenetrable darkness, so thick that he could barely make out the outlines of his fingers pressed against his face. The floor was made of wood he judged, though slimy and slippery. The room (he could only assume he was in a room) was swaying. _A ship?_ Coryn panicked. What had happened? He recalled going to sleep under a willow tree, Kalo and Imvu next to him, with the Roseroad within view. Just then he noticed (or felt) a slight movement to his right. The boy turned his head and saw a humanlike shape no more than 20 feet from where he was. Coryn tried moving, but his feet wouldn't obey – he was frozen in place.

The darkness absorbed him. He spent the next few minutes (or was it hours?) staring into the void, at times hearing the labored breathing of the man or woman to his right. Coryn couldn't move, couldn't so much as talk. Then he heard it – a door, slowly opening as its rusty hinges screamed in disagreement, and it all came rushing back to him – the tidal wave washing through Oldtown, the feeling of helplessness and dread.

A man appeared in the doorway. He was well-built, clad in a suit of armor more elegant and beautiful than any the boy had seen before. As the light came flooding in from behind the stranger, the suit shimmered and glistened, its color onyx. Coryn stared at it, unable to avert his gaze. Later, he wished he'd kept his eyes on it and never looked at the face above. Like the armor, it seemed to be ever-shifting – first it was the scowling face of Jon Orton, then it was his father as he had looked upon their last meeting. After that it was the stern likeness of Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Drangonstone. The face kept morphing into the image of the men he feared or loathed the most – lords he'd seen from afar, boys from Hull that had made fun of him over the years. The room spun and Coryn's vision became blurry. Before passing out, he heard the man in the doorway addressing the wretched form to his right. "Still praying, priest? Your god has forsaken you."

He awoke, this time for real. Coryn did not have the courage to go to sleep again, concentrating on Imvu's heavy breathing and pinching himself whenever he drifted off. Two hours passed before the sky started brightening, but to Coryn it seemed like an eternity. Dreams had once been a welcome escape from life on Cobbler's Alley. They made him feel whole, gave him a glimpse at what might be. But now his sleep was dreamless more oft than not, he'd close his eyes and open them in what seemed like a moment later. When he did dream, the visions were always nightmarishly vivid and haunting.


End file.
